Pouring Sugar on an Open Wound
by ToldInTechnicolour
Summary: Peeta's point of view as he struggles alone in the forest in The Hunger Games. What does he think about Katniss? How does he survive?


**I've been dying to post this for ages! I wrote it for a GCSE assignment and got an A*, since I got my final results today, I figured it was safe to post this because I'm so proud of it!  
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**Hope it's okay!  
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Pouring Sugar on an Open Wound

All I could think of was making sure she got away. God knows what I'd do if she didn't. I saw her running. Faster. She needed to go faster.

Distracted momentarily in my desperation for Katniss' escape, I lost concentration. That was when Cato delivered the blow to my thigh. Searing, white hot pain flickered across my vision, near blinding me. I knew I couldn't kill him then, I'd have to run and hope one of the others got him. Twenty-four tributes in an arena forced to murder each other on live television, all competing to be the last one standing. At least I could count on someone else wanting Cato dead.

Running; I didn't know if I was capable of that, but I had to, or I'd be killed. I couldn't blame him really, he was only doing what he had to to stay alive. I wheeled around and set off, stumbling through the now familiar forest, not really knowing where I was going, just focussed on losing the murderer behind me.

I don't know how long I was running for, my thigh felt hot and sticky where the weapon had impacted but I couldn't bring myself to look or I know I would have collapsed. My mouth began to taste metallic with thirst. There wasn't much water in the arena this year, to drive us all together so the killing began, I supposed. I cursed the Gamemakers. At least I had lost him, or he'd decided I would die from the wound he'd already inflicted – either way, I was glad. On I staggered, needing to get to the river, while I still could.

Time began to blur, it could have taken minutes or it could have taken hours but I finally found a spot to stop. I was about to fall to my knees, but I thought twice as a flash of pain reminded me that landing on my leg wasn't the brightest idea. The sacred saviour rippled in front of me, coursing over pebbles and rocks, it was the most beautiful sound in the world. Resisting the urge just to gulp down the water, sighing, I emptied a few drops of iodine into it, you can't trust anything in the Hunger Games.

I caught sight of myself in the glistening water. My face was gaunt and had an unhealthy, waxy pallor. I had never been rounded – there isn't much food in the Seam, even for a baker's son – but I had always been well built from lifting the trays of bread into the oven. Now, with days of barely any food and no chance of sleeping peacefully (unlike Katniss, who could hide amongst the trees) I had lost the little weight I had.

Knowing I needed to look at my wound, I gingerly peeled back the frayed, sodden edges of my trousers where they had been ripped apart by Cato's sword. The blood still pumped from the gash, the smell prominent. Washing my wound with a detached curiosity, I noted that I could see the bone. It was strange, I should have been panicking but instead I was numb. Numb was good, it dulled the pain. I sat quietly working at cleaning all the dirt from my leg, with only the tweeting of the birds and the mimicking call of the Mockingjays echoing around me. It was peaceful, I realised, surprised. I'd never thought I could find peace in the Capitol's annual punishment for our rebellion – yet I never thought I'd be a tribute in the first place, I couldn't kill and I hadn't yet, it wasn't me.

It seemed that no-one was around, no rustling or crunching of leaves being trodden on, no crack of sticks and I certainly hadn't seen anyone rush past. That was good – they were hunting each other, hopefully forgetting about me for the moment. I paused and examined where I was, the pain feeling like a dull ache; my brain decided I needed a rest from the acute agony I had suffered whilst running. I was no fool, I knew that the floating feeling I had wasn't a good sign, I knew my eyes would be glassy and to the audience watching, I knew I'd look like what I was, a tribute waiting to die.

I wasn't just going to die! Where's the satisfaction in that? I reached out for my bag, it had bandages and, oh did I need them! I couldn't find it, with a sickening jolt, I recalled dropping it in the earlier events in the clearing. The last of my strength went, the bubble of comforting numbness popped and I lay flat on my back, nauseated. Without those bandages, my leg was going to get infected and I would die. I tried to get up to search for the bag but the pain taunted me, laughing that there was no way I was going to move.

Well, I had to hide at least. The sky was darkening and the temperature falling, the trees loomed large above me, their leaves glowing in the light of the setting sun. They reminded me of soldiers standing guard around an injured comrade. Then it struck me. If I couldn't go to a hiding place, a hiding place was going to come to me! Being a baker's son was going to save my life. Back in the Seam, I had iced the delicate cakes, sugar flowers span from my fingers. I, being from a poor family, never got to taste them, but I had the art of creating flowers and leaves perfected. I got to work.

The moon was up by the time I finished, and I lay back exhausted. I had camoflaged myself into the woodland carpet of leaves. My wound had to be covered, which stung like hell, but I was satisfied. Even if someone decided to stare at the floor, they wouldn't see me unless I opened my eyes and I wasn't about to do that. As happy as I could be, in the circumstances, I let unconsciousness claim me, it welcomed me and wrapped me in a dark embrace.

The sun was at its zenith when I awoke, I could feel it beating down on me, still too hot for comfort in the shade of the trees. I listened carefully, making sure it was safe, before I opened my eyes. Someone was roasting a rabbit, I could smell it and see the black tendrils of smoke curling through the air above the trees. I hoped it was Katniss. I hoped she was eating enough.

Was she thinking of me? I doubted it, she could be so stubborn, refusing to believe that I really loved her, which I did and had done since the first morning she sang at school in the Seam. The birds stopped to listen – if that wasn't a sign of perfection, what was? I could imagine her now, her auburn hair pulled back and she crouched working over the coals, she was better at all this survival than I was. She could kill too. Being the sole hunter and provider for her family had steeled her, I supposed my life was easy compared to hers. She thought that our 'love' was a charade designed to win sponsors for help in the arena – the star-crossed-lovers angle, for her it was, maybe, but not for me. I was going to have to die in this arena, otherwise she'd never get out. I had accepted that a long time ago, but it didn't mean I wasn't scared and I would do anything just to hear her laugh once more. That was unlikely, especially in the arena, if she saw me, she'd try and kill me, she thought I'd betrayed her. I could never do that, not to the girl I love. I was sacrificing myself for her. The thoughts were too painful and my wound was suffering in the sun. I closed my eyes.

The Boy with the Bread lay by the river, invisible. Katniss had just claimed the life of another tribute and the arena was enveloped in a quiet which was somehow more threatening than a commotion. Claudius Templesmith's voice echoed from the sky, calling an announcement which caused Katniss to begin a frantic search and Peeta's eyes to flicker open in surprise – something that he thought he no longer had the strength to do.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, an unprecedented rule change, something that has never happened in the previous seventy-three Hunger Games, two tributes from the same district can become joint victors. That's right! Team up whilst you can! May the odds be ever in your favour."

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